else and no one sells them out here. Our landlady has one eye that looks
up the chimney and another that goes cellar wards and Carlton says that
she always regards him obliquely--never mind, she is a good stupid soul
and I can forgive a landlady anything but perspicacity. I don't see how
our intimacy has escaped her,--to me it looks like the first foreign
sticker on an American five dollar dress suit case.
Why do you write such short letters? Is it because you have but a
limited number of ideas and must dispense them carefully?
What did Philip Leighton die of? His wife, I suppose. They never had
anything in common but the kiddies. That means no more hunts at
Blackburn Heath unless someone careless like Philip absorbs the estate.
Mrs. Philip was a Pennsylvania girl. _N'est ce pas?_ That accounts for
her effulgent spontaneity. Isn't it a shame for me to wax bombastic over
a girl who, if she were just a little brighter, might be called half
witted. She's the girl with the massive mother, who suffers from
dislocated adjectives. They say when she was married her prayer book was
missing, so she carried a cake of ivory soap instead--The mother was
divorced and could have had alimony if she had wanted it, but she had
better sense than to want it. She has venomous optics--the fellows used
to say they flew when she flashed her calciums; ugly as the seven deadly
sins and so mannish that I was always afraid her trousers would show
beneath her petticoats. The giddy old cat! If she had been hanging since
her sixtieth birthday, she would certainly be breathless now.
All day, dear, I go about my duties with a most ladylike absence of
passion, but when night comes I cross the sandy waste of the past and
stretch out my hands to fondle the idea of perfect companionship. Our
thoughts seem to be a reverberation of the same thunderous roll, and
while they are not identical, they are of the same breadth and
elevation. The conditions of propinquity are responsible; and as love
did not come to me, I had to do as Mahomet did with the mountain.
When he goes from me, Joy vanishes, but leaves a bright track of light
behind, which bursts upon me through the clouds of cigarette smoke that
he has left.
Each day I awaken more warmed and thrilled, like the sun which finds the
mountain tops that he touched with his departing rays still warm when he
sends his shaft of light in the morn.
No maelstrom of distrust do we feel, only a mighty, overpowering passion
that no undress of intimacy can ever destroy.
Good-night, friend of my babyhood, my girlhood, my womanhood. My
greetings for your birthday.
Affy,
MARIANNE.
February 10.
Don't be cross with me, dear, I am in no danger. Your repeated letters
came--I read them, then straightway forgot that they should be answered.
It is no evidence of a lessening of my love for you, but because life
has become so mysteriously perfect for me that I dream away my hours.
One night, seemingly a million years ago, but really only within the
present week, I felt cold as I stood by my stove and plaited my hair--I
have nice hair, Lorna, haven't I? But I didn't seem to notice it. I was
in my nightie and I shivered. My white chiffon bedspread with the pink
roses strewn over it was near, so I drew it close about me and felt that
I had protected myself from the chill. It wasn't an external chill that
made me quake, but something old and deep-rooted and lonely that came
from the depths of the soul in me and begged and pleaded for
recognition.
The big stove with its dozens of mica eyes threw out comforting little
rays of coziness, but the real me still shivered. I walked to the window
and opened it. Strange, disquieting, but gracious thoughts that I had
lost somewhere in the twilight of the night before, came riding back to
me on a snow flurry--it was so still that I feared to breathe, lest I
disturb the solitude--the sky wasn't heavy and gray, but clear and blue
and seemed like a soft silken canopy that the gaunt maples upheld to
protect me and my love, and the virgin snow that fell on my outstretched
arms in soft little rosettes that disappeared as our loves sometimes do
when they have but let us feel the deliciousness of their possession.
The heavy old door between my room and his creaked with rustiness and
age, as for the first time in years it turned upon its hinges. Carlton
had watched for my last good-night signal and grew alarmed at its
absence and my quietude.
I wonder why I didn't feel embarrassed--all I know is that after he
discovered a comfortable angle in my Morris, I crawled into his arms and
lay there quietly without a word until dawn the next morning. Our sleep
was rhythmic, just like our love. What a strange beautiful night we
passed and how difficult it would be to make the world believe!
Awakening, I felt something cold around my neck, and there, dear girl,
he had fastened pearls while I slept in his arms. I cannot even imagine
their value, as I know nothing of jewels but how to accept and wear
them.
Such a gift is wonderful at any time, but how much more subtly charming
to have it fastened on you as you lay, comfy and subconscious in his
strong and doubtless aching arms. Such peace, peace, dear, would have
benumbed Napoleon; but I need few other interests--my universe begins at
his head and ends at his feet.
This is the purest jag of joy that I have ever been on in my life, and I
wonder that one small blonde woman is able to allow herself so much
spark and not have her engines explode.
I always fancied that I should die if such an ideal existence even
attempted to show its face to me; and instead, I take my soup before
it's cold, put my shoes on my feet, my hat on my head, retire and arise
at the usual hours.
He embroiders his talk with bungalows, steam yachts and motor cars for
the future, while I fear to buy a pair of boots before a consultation
with my trousers pocket. I find myself imprisoned in a banker's
portfolio, floundering in statements covered with red ink. He doesn't
dream that such is the case, or all his funds would be at my disposal.
Somehow, if I had my decree, I should tell him; but while I am still
someone's else wife I cannot take his money--it would soil my emotions.
Yesterday, while opening a crate for me, he cut his finger very badly,
and as I bound it up he said, "Forgive me," and concealing his hurt, he
sought pardon for the pain he had caused me.
His feelings are intuitively charming, and though he hasn't a university
education, he has a universal one, which counts for far more in this
world where a stab is given in return for a pin prick.
Good-night, precious girl-woman, whose friendship has never failed me,
whose love has been the most uplifting emotion that I have ever known.
MARIANNE.
March 3.
Lorna Mine:
My six months were up on March first, but as the judge hates undue haste
about serving papers, I waited one whole hour before I shot mine off to
New York. I am no longer doing time, but am a full-fledged citizen of
South Dakota. Isn't it nice that my case won't have a jury--it always
gets hung and it sounds unpleasant even if it really isn't.
Oh! these dazzlingly cool, fresh, spring days. If there is anything more
beautiful in the West than their gaudy Indian summer, it is the half
scared spring. The wind is a bit blustery and pretentious, but otherwise
Nature seems doubtful as to whether she will paint her landscape or not.
Each night a grand sunset crowns the close of a cloudless day.
Weeks ago Carlton's decree was granted him, but he stays to hold me in
his arms while I wait for mine. You ask if we are engaged? Yes--awfully
engaged all the time.
I have never before been able to understand why people put such vast
sums in churches. Now I know. It isn't on account of the worship, nor of
the interior, but for the steps. When you take into consideration what
assistance they have rendered lovers, it only seems just that they
should be taxed. We worship at Christian Science Church, because it's
darker, every night except Wednesday; but they have some sort of a
shin-dig then, so we switch to the Episcopal and take communion with
each other. Nice clean, comfy, red granite steps that so many pious,
divorce-hating feet have passed over. My sympathies go out to all women,
even if they are fallen and so did Christ's; but the good Sioux Fallians
are above it. They pull all the hay to their side of the manger and
forget that we, having never used such food, don't miss it now. It is a
pity that we can't infuse more of the "God-honor-and-the-ladies" spirit
into this depth of silliness out here.
The West is so big and glorious and free, it seems strange that the corn
crop should be so superior to the people. I suppose it is because each
perfect stalk of corn turns its face to God and Heaven, and the people
are so busy gossiping they haven't the time to worship. When we pass
them on the street we feel like saying: "Our reputations are in your
hands. In God's name be merciful!"
I am keeping house now in my room--light housekeeping, you know. It's
positively airy sometimes. My landlady--bless her ignorant soul!--allows
my little ice-box to remain in her butler's pantry, which I have
christened "cockroach alley." They--the cockroaches--are so large and
educated that I have named them, and each one comes when it's called and
feeds from the hand.
She wears the most artistic skirts--always ball-room back and ballet
front. Her grandchild was sitting on the floor yesterday, reading the
Bible, when suddenly she looked up and said: "Grandma, there's a
grammatical error in this Bible," and my landlady said: "Well, kill it,
child, kill it!" She spends whole hours each day talking to her birds,
which, she claims, save the expense of a piano. I told the grandchild to
go out into the sunshine this morning and it would do her cold good. She
said, very saucily: "I won't go into the sunshine, my grandma told me to
go into the air." My grandma didn't tell me to go there, Lorna, but
someone must have ordered it, for in the "air" I am, and so high that I
no longer feel the earth beneath my feet.
Thank you so much for Mr. Fitch's article. So you think that Sioux Falls
is like his description of it. He came in one night and left the next
morning, then wrote an article which is a gross exaggeration in every
particular. In the first place there was never but one French maid here
and she was Irish. It is true that some scandalous people come here, but
there are also scandalous residents; however, there are many more
divorcees, quiet, charming and unseen, who do not fret away their six
months, but spend them profitably, writing, sewing, taking care of their
beloved children, _et cetera_.
The very idea of mentioning anything as incongruous as Sioux Falls and
luxury in the same breath--it's a slam on luxury! Big and luxurious
hotels--Mr. Fitch ought to be mobbed. Wonder if he got a whiff of the
lobby of the only thing that can be called an hotel here, or if he had a
cold during his prolonged stay of twelve hours, nine of which he slept
through. At the hotel yesterday I mentioned to the elevator boy that
many children were stopping there. He answered: "Yes, there is more
children than there is guests."
That grill room that he speaks of is a dim memory; I think it lasted two
months; and as it depended on divorce custom entirely, and as the main
part of the colony sups in its own home, the thing fell through. And the
theatres, dear, we have had two good shows since I came, otherwise "ten,
twenty and thirty."
The women and preachers may be against the quick lunch method of
divorce, but you can gamble on it that the business men heartily
approve; and these same women and preachers will find their larders and
contribution boxes but scantily filled if the odorous money of the
dissolute "Divorsay" is barred.
I am all excited over the article as there is neither truth nor ruth in
it, and Carlton is intensely amused, so I suppose I will not try to
fight the battles of the colony so long as I am lazy and comfortable in
the arms of my love.
Had a long letter from Gretchen yesterday in which she says she enjoyed
her bridal tour thoroughly, particularly at the Falls. I wrote back and
asked: "Which?--Niagara or Sioux?"
Good-night, dearest, I close my eyes and sleep in a moment, as there are
no longer any thorns to stuff my pillow.
MARIANNE.
May 2nd.
Lorna Dear:
It wasn't a bit hard to live through. The papers all came back by return
mail, and all day Sunday I was in my attorney's office practising. It
wasn't any more difficult than a Sunday-school lesson, and Monday
morning at eight o'clock I was waiting at Liberty Hall for the hoped-for
arrival of "The Greatest Common Divisor." At last he came, but with a
sour expression, and not knowing what trouble he might have had before
he left home, I tried to be patient.
We were ushered through the big court room into the judge's
sanctum--asked how long I'd been here, and so forth and so fifth--then
the comical question: "Do you expect to make Sioux Falls your home?"
and the threadbare reply: "I have made no plans for the future," when
all the time I had my I. C. tickets for the 3.30 train in my pocket. Do
you know that was the first time I ever really perjured myself--like a
lady--before, and somehow I wished awfully that I had let Carlton hold
the tickets until after the trial. I couldn't even get my kerchief out
of my pocketbook for fear the blooming time tables and tickets would
show. Oh! the judge was terribly saccharine after he warmed up, and I
adore him. Wish I had to get another divorce tomorrow--he's just like a
dear old Universal Dad, and everyone loves him.
Well! dear, just to think of it. I've lost my hobbies! Isn't it great,
and yet isn't it really sad! It means a failure in the greatest
undertaking of a woman's life, and it also means that I issue
forth--branded. I refuse to hold post mortems and am practising loss of
memory. Now for the possibilities of the future. Possibility is the
biggest word in the dictionary. Isn't it strange that a woman may live
apart from her husband and do atrocious things, without wearing the
tell-tale letter on her bosom, yet let a virtuous woman take the step
for freedom, and, alas! she carries the scar as long as she breathes.
But its worth it, dear. I have thought it all over and I repeat it a
thousand times, its worth it. "I have written it upon the doorposts of
my house and upon my gates, and I wear it as frontlets between mine
eyes"--it's worth it!
I have worn crepe for my departed virtues for six years, but I throw it
aside now and feel a new being whose glad unrestraint may carry her
farther than she intended, just as prudery often lends a woman greater
cruelty than she feels.
How clever of Don Willard to buy in Northern Pacific during the slump.
He gets on with his sense of smell--he's a jackal who scents a carcass
and gets there in time for a good bone.
While unpacking my trunk today I came across my wedding veil and it was
all gray and dingy like the end of my honeymoon. How many sweet and
tremulous illusions I folded into it on that first night and how soon
afterwards did three-fourths of the world look like ashes to me. Dreams
are harder to give up than realities, because they come back and gibe us
even after they are dead and buried, while tangible realities stay
fairly well hidden when we screw down the lid. I suppose you think that
I talk like Old Man Solomon, but you know that the only serious thoughts
I have are mushrooms of one minute's gestation.
My landlady does her own washing, so I asked her if she would do mine
for ample pay. She suffers so from modesty that she was hardly able to
answer me, but finally said: "I would be willing to, but my husband
don't improve on it." Poor creature, she has lived here all her days and
is still unable to direct me to a single place--her bump of location is
surely a dent.
Mrs. Judge knows the name of each member of the colony; when they came
and how often they have gone away, and the Lord help you if your
residence isn't right! That's the one thing that the Judge is squeamish
about, and as Mrs. Judge keeps tab for him, there is no use trying to
fudge. If you don't come up before the Judge in six months and one week,
she inquires of your landlady the reason for your delay. And of course
the landlady knows the reason, even if you don't yourself. Every Monday
afternoon Mrs. Judge drives by the I. C. station at exactly 3.25 to see
which one of the widows, whose case was tried that morning, is leaving
the same day. Of course they all leave unless they are prostrated with
excitement. We always pack all baggage on Saturday, the dress-suit cases
on Sunday, and engage the drayman on the way down to the trial Monday
morning. There has never been any hitch in the arrangements, so I
suppose they will remain the same until the end of time.
You don't know what a comfort my phonograph has been to me--I would
never attempt another divorce without one. The long, lonely
evenings--the endless days, when time never moves off the spot, my dogs
and I have sat on the floor fascinated with the greatest music in the
world. I like my machine because it may be depended upon, never is
nervous, and always willing to perform. Talent is so spasmodic and
dependent upon moods, while the little hard rubber discs tirelessly and
graciously amuse you.
You say that you will write more anon. I have looked in Webster and the
Brittanica, as I was a bit anxious to find out just what length of time
anon signifies, but I have been unsuccessful. In other words, if after
breakfast someone said to me, "You shall have more food anon," I should
probably starve to death if I sat down and waited for it. Now don't be
mean to me because I am in love and have neglected you. I send you
thousands of messages and ask you thousands of questions each day, and
simply because I don't waste time and paper in setting them down is no
sign that you aren't constantly in my thoughts. Love knows no distance,
and I go to you every evening for a good-night kiss just as I close my
eyes to sleep, and always do I feel that you know it. There is no
barrier of antagonism around you so my spirit enters where you are
whenever it so desires.
You are melancholy again--how can you live in stays set with nails and
maintain the grace of a dancer? It must be because of your child. I
could not do it, I'm sure--not even for my child if I had one. You are
wiser than most of us fools who have choked our lives in the mud of New
York. To men, dear, you are a cold Alp. Snow bound and near to heaven,
impenetrable and frowning with flanks of granite, and yet beneficent.
How do you accomplish it when your heart is wrung from year's end to
year's end?
It must be Machiavellian foresight, precious--foresight that you alone,
out of the whole set, possess. The world never forgives a failure and
never forgives you for telling it the truth, and my standard is truth,
as near as possible, and yours is sacrifice complete. Which is right? We
shall go on begging the question until the end of time. In human
transactions the law of optics seems to be reversed--we always see
indistinctly the things that are nearest to us. You have never judged,
so judge me not.
MARIANNE.
The Black Hills,
September 20.
Dearest Lorna:
A thousand years ago--or maybe it wasn't so long, I can't clearly
remember things any more, time isn't of any consequence, but it was the
day I received my decree, and I returned my railroad tickets to the I.
C. office--Carlton and I packed up some rugs, pillows and luncheon, and
floated down the river to breathe confidences. Far away on the horizon
was a misty hedge of cypress trees darkly traced on a canvas of
lavenders and blues, overhung by extravagant yards of cloudy chiffon.
Nearby the tall alders were all bent to the southward, from the bitter
winds, and looked like huge giants on the march with heavy burdens on
their shoulders. They swayed at times and seemed likely to fall with
their loads. On and on we floated, and on and on they marched.
The country was as tremulous as a bride, and to us nothing seemed
impossible. In such magic moments when enjoyment sheds its reflection on
the future the soul foresees nothing but happiness.
Toward sunset we moored our boat to a tree in a little backwater where
the current was barely felt and mutely watched the changes in the great
turquoise satin tent above us that seemed held aloft by the hills to
shelter the landscape of barley and corn and wheat that swished and
swished like feminine music of taffeta petticoats.
We felt reasons all around us why we should be happy--the trees were
greens and browns--no one like the other, blended in the harmonious
colorings of an old French tapestry stolen from a deserted chateau.
All the earth seemed so sweet and so pure, and we were enjoying the
world as a clean open-air playground. A few fluffy clouds began to
appear, but old Boreas blew them away as soon as the west wind brought
them up.
Suddenly his gaze betrayed remembrance and he drew me into his arms and
our lips met. Thus we remained, languidly content, until long after the
sky man had studded the heavens with millions of silver nails. And
there, near a field of cattle, like Paul Potter painted, under a sky
worthy of Raphael, in a cove overhung with trees like a picture by
Hobbema, he asked me to be his wife. And then the sweetest ceremony
that ever was solemnized under God's loving eyes was fulfilled there in
the stillness of the night. He said: "I love you," and for answer I
said: "I love you too," and on my finger was placed a cool new band,
which reads within: "For all eternity." As old and worldly as I am, I
felt all the instinct of chastity and delicacy which is the very
material of a first love. Our wedding feast was spread out in the bottom
of the craft, with no effulgence of light save the reflection of God's
own lanterns.
All sorts of night things chirped and sang of our joy, and trout leaped
from the water in answer to the bread that I crumbled for them.
Our boat rocked and swayed as the current reached us more directly, and
leaves and sticks and weeds went floating by with turgid little
whirlpools swirling aft. We were lazy lurdans, nestling there in the
moonlight, but time is the precious gift of the Almighty and man may
gamble it away if he chooses. Finally dawn found us floating homeward in
the mists of awakening morn.
Months and months have passed since then--strange new mother instincts
have arisen in my soul, and he still presses me to his heart and
whispers: "For all eternity."
You could not discover my whereabouts, as I left no address in Sioux
Falls. I did not want the world nor society, not even you, but just
solitude--and my husband. Now we want you to know that in this beautiful
wilderness we have a home--a mountain home with placid Indian servants,
who glide in and out and serve noiselessly and speechlessly: I must
confess that I am only one-half brave, as the world, all but you, thinks
that a minister has mumbled over us for a second time.
You are great enough to appreciate the joy we feel in cheating all
humanity. Carlton has willed all of his possessions to me and to our
precious little future reproduction of our love, who can but be perfect,
as he is a creature of perfect conditions. We are also but half great,
as it pleased us that the New York papers reported our marriage; but in
our lives we are all-great and all-sufficient for each other.
Our bungalow is built in rugged, primeval "Spearfish Canon," but you may
address all mail to Custer, where Carlton goes in his motor every day
for things that please me.
I am so happy, so proud, so grateful that my mate is as far-seeing as I
am, and we feel a mutual dread for the time when we must forsake our
Black Hills for the fuller and less satisfying life in New York--but we
can't play always, out here in the sunshine.
Write to me soon and forgive me for doubting that you would understand.
MARIANNE.
Black Hills,
November 25.
Dearest:
How happy your letter has made me and how slow you were in making up
your mind, but I'd rather have you love me after thinking than to love
me just because I'm I. Had you not understood, I should have loved you
but because you understand I bow down and idolize you as I have done all
my days.
Every girl deserves a mother--it is her natural heritage and Nature
risks a great deal in cheating her out of her original right. I have
been defrauded, but a friend like you compensates for much and is a
straight gift from God and Heaven.